


this action will have no echo

by andrewminyards



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Feels, Assassin Jaskier | Dandelion, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Canon-Typical Violence, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Oblivious Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Secret Identity, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, jaskier wears a dress and is still a fucking badass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25957597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrewminyards/pseuds/andrewminyards
Summary: “What are you doing here?” Geralt flicks his gaze over Jaskier, who’s suddenly acutely aware of the hidden blades under his clothes. “Where’s your lute?”“My - what areyoudoing here?” Jaskier deflects, trying valiantly to hide his panic. With Geralt here, how is he supposed to kill the lord now?“The lord hired me as a bodyguard.” Geralt looks around uncomfortably, clearing his throat. “Apparently someone’s trying to kill him.”Jaskier’s stomach drops. Well,shit. If the lord knows that someone is after him, Jaskier will have a harder time getting close enough to kill him, and with Geralt acting as a bodyguard… that complicates things. Alot.*Jaskier is an assassin, but Geralt doesn’t know that. When Jaskier is sent after a cruel, corrupt lord who has hired Geralt as his bodyguard, Jaskier tries to figure out how to assassinate the lord without Geralt finding out his secret.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 188
Kudos: 1223
Collections: The Best Fics I've Read, The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #006





	1. Chapter 1

Darkness lurks beneath his sweet, seductive smiles. Blood stains his hands under the white satin gloves that cover his sins. Behind his wide, kohl-lined eyes lie the promise of death. 

He is Jaskier, he is Julian, he is Marek, Aleksander, Szymon. Sometimes, he is Adrianna, Serafina, Natasza. He slips into bedrooms and ballrooms, his eyes twinkling and his smile bright, with deadly blades hidden under silk and lace and velvet, with poison clenched between his teeth and sewn into his sleeves, and he lures his victims in.

They think that they are the predator. They think that he is prey, and Jaskier lets them, lets them think that they are in control when in fact _he_ is the one pulling the strings.

They fall for it, hook, line, and sinker. They always do.

After all, Jaskier never fails.

* * *

The village is run-down, its streets dirty and poorly maintained. The villagers make their way through the streets with their heads down, their clothes grimy and their expressions miserable. There isn’t a single spark of joy in the village, only misery and sorrow and poverty, and Jaskier’s heart aches as he and Geralt walk through the village towards the inn. 

The innkeeper is subdued, his bony shoulders bowed as he gives them a room, his voice quiet and deferential as he speaks to them, and the feeling of wrongness in Jaskier’s chest grows. 

“I’ll be back in a bit,” Jaskier murmurs to Geralt once they secure the room, and Geralt nods absently, running his hand over his pack of potions. 

At the end of the village is a small shack, where a short, stout woman lives. Her face and hands are dark and weathered from hours of labour, the lines of her face far beyond her years, and she presses a pouch of gold into his hands, eyes pleading but fierce with anger. 

“Kill him,” she whispers, and Jaskier can see her grief etched into her face, marks of what she’s lost, of what she’s suffered. “This is collected from the scraps of what all of us as a village own. We all want him gone. Get rid of him, and you’ll be doing us a favour.”

Jaskier nods. “And his friends?”

“Them, too.” Her face twists into a snarl. “Him and his friends, and his guards, who beat us up and force themselves on us. All of them, not a shred of goodness in their hearts. We have suffered far too long.”

Jaskier asks her a few more questions, a ball of fury growing in his chest as she answers them readily, and he bids her farewell before walking through the village. He talks to the people, learns about their plights, their suffering. He learns about a lord, cruel and depraved, caring only for himself at the expense of the villagers, learns about the utter poverty that has descended upon this town under the greedy hands of the lord. 

_Henryk_ , they call him, hissing his name with hate. Henryk, the one who’d destroyed their lives, who’d doomed so many to death and violated and exploited so many others. Henryk, who lounges in his golden mansion at the edge of the village, with his pearly gates and his brutal guards, who carry out his dirty work for him with violence and cruelty. 

As he meets with the villagers, Jaskier offers what he has, all the coin on his person, the gold that the woman had given him, playing songs for those who haven’t heard a single musical note in years, giving a warm embrace to those who’ve known nothing but hard labour and cruel violence. He can’t offer much, but as he makes his way through the village, Jaskier offers comfort where he can, even as fury burns in his chest at the evidence of Henryk’s horrible deeds laid out before him. 

The town has been ground down into nothing more than poverty under his hands. The villagers, who’ve suffered so much, who’ve been violated and exploited in unforgivable ways, will be better off without the lord.

The pouch of gold the woman had given him is empty now. Looking at the top of the golden mansion peeking out over the crooked roofs of the village houses, Jaskier knows that there are some things he’s willing to do even without payment. 

Henryk needs to go. 

“There’s a party tonight,” a young man whispers to him, his face barely into adulthood but lined with pain and tragedy. “He’s hosting it for his fellow nobles, all of them exactly like him.”

 _Perfect_. 

When Jaskier returns to the inn, his pockets empty of coin and resolve steely in his heart, Geralt is clad in armour, swords strapped to his back. 

“Contract?” Jaskier asks, plopping down on the bed. There’d been a mysterious contract posted at the edge of the town, and Jaskier is secretly grateful that he won’t have to make excuses to evade Geralt if he’s out on a hunt. Jaskier can sneak in, get the job done, all without tipping Geralt off, and then they can leave before anyone suspects him.

A curt nod. “I should be back by sundown,” Geralt grunts, hovering by the door. “Don’t get yourself into trouble before then.”

“Trouble? Me?” Jaskier laughs, waving a dismissive hand. “Please, Geralt, you know me better than that.”

Geralt doesn’t roll his eyes, but his mouth twitches slightly. “I know you too well to believe that.”

Jaskier sticks his tongue out at Geralt, petulant. “Whatever, just go find out what the contract is and take care of it, then we can have a nice warm meal and a nice hot bath.”

Geralt grumbles under his breath, but shoots one last pointed look at Jaskier before he leaves the room. Jaskier listens to his footsteps recede, listens to the way they patter down the stairs and grow fainter and fainter, listens to the way they head out of the inn and onto the streets, and out of the range of Jaskier’s hearing.

Then Jaskier finally lets his playful smile drop. Now that Geralt is off to take the contract, Jaskier can slip away and start preparing for the job.

He opens his lute case and takes the lute out, pressing his hands over a secret compartment. Chaos hums in the air as the lining of the case peels back to reveal his hidden weapons and his collection of outfits, everything that Jaskier hides from Geralt, everything he keeps secret. 

Jaskier darts a quick glance towards the window. The sun is still high in the sky, which means that he still has time until the party starts. Sifting through his collection of clothing, Jaskier tries to find a suitable outfit as he recalls what the lord, Henryk, likes.

“The lord has men coming in and out of his chambers,” Jaskier recalls one of the villagers saying. “He likes them slim, certainly slimmer than you, and he likes them feminine.”

Jaskier had nodded. “That won’t be a problem.”

The woman eyed him dubiously. “Are you sure, boy? You don’t look…”

“Trust me.” A shark-like grin, quick and fleeting. “I’ll be fine. He’ll be gone by the end of the week, along with the rest of his friends.”

The villager still looked slightly sceptical, but she handed over part of the payment with a nod. “Very well. Thank you, Shadow. The workers of this village will owe you a great debt.”

Fire had _blazed_ within Jaskier at the thought of what the lord had done to his subjects, the hours upon hours of arduous labour with nothing in return, the way he’d taken and taken and taken from them and from their families until there was nothing left, the way he’d taken the young village girls and boys and used them as personal entertainers for him and his fellow nobles, violating them in unspeakable ways. 

“He will not lay a finger on anyone else,” Jaskier said darkly. “I will make sure of that.”

_He likes them slim. He likes them feminine._

Jaskier skims his fingers over his stack of clothes, bypassing the trousers and the doublets in favour of the skirts and dresses. He traces his fingers over yellow chiffon and white lace, over rosy satin and blue silk, until his fingers settle on a deep, rich red.

He pulls it out. The material is soft to the touch, and Jaskier quickly runs his hands over it, checking that there are various hidden pockets sewn into the dress, then he quickly undresses, strapping daggers to his thighs and to his biceps, searching through his stack of weapons for a retractable staff that he straps to his back.

Then he steps into the dress, slipping it on carefully. It’s cut low, exposing part of his chest, just enough to be tempting, just enough to tease at what’s hidden under the rest of it. It’s long enough to cover the daggers on his thighs, and the billowy sleeves conceal the thick curve of his biceps and the daggers strapped there. The cape attached to the top of the dress hides the breath of his shoulders, and he ties a sash around his waist, cinching it as tight as he dares. 

Sifting through the compartment, he pulls out a necklace, where a small knife is expertly hidden, and loops it around his neck. Rings with hidden, poisonous blades go on his fingers, and he slips small vials of poison into the hidden pockets on his dress.

Finally, Jaskier steps into a pair of heeled boots, tucking a knife into each one. It never hurts to be too prepared, after all.

Then he wanders over to the mirror. With deft hands, he expertly lines his eyes with kohl and paints his lips a few shades redder, and when he steps back, looking over himself, Jaskier sees exactly the type of man Henryk would go for.

Quickly, he makes a few adjustments, pulling the sash slightly tighter around his waist, rearranging the cape so that it conceals the breadth of his shoulders a bit better, making sure that his knives and daggers are hidden. 

Then Jaskier smiles demurely at himself, watching his red lips tilt up in the mirror, and he lets his posture melt into something seductive, something alluring. 

Henryk won’t be able to resist him.

* * *

Night is falling. Jaskier can hear people still labouring in various places around the village instead of going home to their families for dinner, and his resolve strengthens. He strides towards the mansion in the distance, a golden spot of wealth in the middle of poverty. 

Several guards are stationed at the gates, and Jaskier paints a sweet smile on his face as he heads up to them. 

“Invitation?” A tall, burly man asks, extending a hand, and Jaskier narrows his eyes.

“You’re asking _me_ for an invitation?” He draws his shoulders back, tilting his chin up in a display of imperious arrogance. “Henryk invited me personally. How dare you ask me for an invitation?”

Jaskier watches with satisfaction as the guard’s gaze dips to his exposed chest, his throat bobbing slightly. 

“Uh.” The guard gulps. “I’m sorry, but you must -”

“I’m sure dear Henryk would be delighted to hear that you stopped _me_ at the door,” Jaskier crosses his arms and pouts, tilting his hips just so, and the guard’s eyes glaze over.

“Right - uh - fine,” he stutters, and steps aside. Jaskier lets a smug, haughty smile play over his lips as the guard babbles, “I - please forgive me for my actions, it won’t happen again, I promise.”

“It better not.” Jaskier turns his nose up at the guard and strides in, every step sure and confident. He walks in through the tall, opulent doors, and enters the huge ballroom.

The ballroom drips with wealth, and Jaskier has to suppress a snarl as he watches the nobles mingle, laughing and talking with their extravagant clothing and their glittering jewellery made from the labour of poor men, enjoying the finest luxuries as the people in the village are left with nothing but scraps.

Pushing down the burning hatred that rises within him, Jaskier reminds himself that he needs to focus on his goal, his mission, and he scans the room until his eyes settle on a stocky man, clad in resplendent gold. Surrounded by fawning nobles, he’s clearly the host of this ostentatious party.

Jaskier starts walking in that direction, hips swaying, and he feels the hungry eyes of several nobles on his body, but he pays them no heed, keeping his eyes on his goal. Heads swivel in his direction, and when he sees someone tap Henryk’s shoulder and point to him, Jaskier lets a syrupy smile play across his face.

Henryk looks at him, muddy green eyes raking over him, over his exposed chest and his body, easily visible from the way the dress hugs his curves. He takes in Jaskier’s kohl-lined eyes, his red painted lips, and Jaskier recognises the look in his eyes, the look that many, many nobles have given him, a look that he knows far too well, one that he knows how to use to his best advantage. 

With Henryk’s gaze fixed on him, Jaskier lets the game begin. He walks towards a nearby table, filled with nobles drinking and feasting on exquisite foods, and he drapes himself over the nearest woman, aware that Henryk’s gaze is burning into him. The woman grabs greedily at him with a high giggle, feeling up his thigh, and Jaskier trails his fingers over the goblet of wine in her hand, licking his lips deliberately.

The woman’s gaze drops to his lips, her attention straying from her goblet, and Jaskier lets his other hand caress her face gently before he stands up, heading over to the next noble. The woman tries to reach for him, but Jaskier deftly evades her with a wink.

The woman is utterly unaware of the poison that Jaskier had slipped into her drink.

Jaskier falls into another man’s arms, smiling up at him from underneath his lashes, and he lets the man’s hands wander over his body, suppressing the shudder of disgust that threatens to run through him. He runs his hand down the man’s arm, slow and sensual, until his hand hovers over the man’s goblet.

Jaskier wraps his fingers around the goblet, and the man watches him with heavy lidded eyes as Jaskier takes a slow sip, leaving a red imprint on the edge of the metal. With a flutter of his lashes, Jaskier places the goblet against the man’s mouth, nudging him and tipping the wins into his mouth, smiling in satisfaction when the man gulps it down eagerly, his eyes never leaving Jaskier’s.

He continues this dance, making his way through the hall of nobles, lords and ladies alike, falling into them with sweet smiles and pretty eyes, and slipping poison into their drinks when they’re too distracted by him to notice. He runs his ringed fingers over their faces, across their throats, nicking their skin slightly, just enough for potent poison to enter their veins. 

Through all this, Jaskier knows that Henryk is watching him, tracking the way he flirts and seduces noble after noble, and he plays up his actions, urging Henryk to keep his eyes on him, and only on him. 

If there’s one thing that rich men want, it’s a pretty thing that all their fellow nobles seem to crave. They want the prize. They want to win the prize and show it off for everyone to see, soaking in the envy of their fellow lords and ladies. So Jaskier wanders through the hall, letting nobles grab at him and reach for him, letting himself be the object of desire, making himself into the perfect prize to draw Henryk into his clutches. 

When Jaskier is feeding grapes into the mouth of an old, plump man, he purposefully meets Henryk’s eyes from across the room as he bites his lip. Henryk’s eyes darken, and he raises a hand, beckoning Jaskier over.

There it is.

Jaskier rises to his feet, dancing out of the way of the old man grasping at him, and heads straight towards Henryk, cutting across the ballroom with sure, steady strides. Henryk watches his approach with lustful eyes, ignoring the way the nobles around him clamour for his attention, and Jaskier lets his hips sway just a little bit more, determined to have Henryk’s attention focused only on him.

But before he can gets past the crowd of nobles that surround Henryk, a warm hand wraps around his arm, and Jaskier turns with a simpering smile on his lips, hand reaching for a hidden dagger and ready to tear apart the person who’d _dared_ to touch him, but then he meets familiar golden eyes, and his words die in his throat.

“Geralt?” His voice comes out as a low hiss, and he inches his hand away from the dagger as discreetly as possible. 

Geralt studies him, expression unreadable. His eyes flicker from Jaskier’s painted face to his dress, and his eyebrows creep up. “Jaskier. What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you,” Jaskier returns, shaking Geralt’s grip from his arm and trying not to let his annoyance show. He needs to get to Henryk _now_. “You don’t usually come to parties like this.”

“Hm.” Geralt’s gaze once again flicks over Jaskier’s body, and well, Jaskier had hoped that Geralt wouldn’t ever see this side of him, but it’s too late. “Where’s your lute?”

Fuck. There’s no reason for Jaskier to be at this party if he’s not performing, no reason for him to be here dressed like _this_ , and Jaskier scrambles for an excuse before he ends up with the simplest one.

He shrugs, schooling his face into nonchalance as he prays that Geralt buys into his weak excuse. “Back at the inn. I’m not here to perform, just to have a good time.”

“Right.” There’s definitely judgement in that tone, and Jaskier bristles. He wants to deliver a cutting retort, but Geralt is blocking his view of Henryk, and Jaskier can’t have Henryk losing interest in him, not if he wants to carry out his job successfully. 

“What are _you_ doing here?” Jaskier questions, edging slightly around Geralt to try and catch a glimpse of Henryk, to see if he’s still looking at Jaskier, because if not, Jaskier will have to grab his attention once again, and that would be _frustrating_. “I wasn’t aware that parties are your scene.”

“They’re not.” Geralt looks around uncomfortably, clearing his throat. “I was - ah, the lord hired me as a bodyguard. Apparently someone’s trying to kill him.” 

Jaskier’s stomach drops. Well, _shit_. That means Henryk knows that someone is after him, and Jaskier will have a harder time trying to get close, _and_ with Henryk getting Geralt as a bodyguard… that complicates things. A lot. 

He keeps the apprehension from his face and tilts his head at Geralt. “And you just accepted it?” he asks dubiously, not quite able to believe that Geralt hadn’t turned down a contract to be a _bodyguard_ , an utter waste of his witcher skills. “Last time I asked you to be my bodyguard, I practically dragged you kicking and screaming to the banquet!”

Geralt shrugs. “He has money. You didn’t.”

“You would do this for a stranger but not for your best friend?” Jaskier gasps, falling back into their familiar banter as his mind whirs, trying to work out how he’ll manage to kill Henryk with Geralt in the way, all while keeping his actions a secret from Geralt. “Why, I’m hurt, Geralt, I thought -”

“Excuse me,” a smooth voice interrupts, and both Jaskier and Geralt jerk their heads to the side to see Henryk approaching them, eyes fixed eagerly on Jaskier. 

“My lord,” Geralt greets stiffly with a bow of his head, clearly uncomfortable. “I was just -”

“Do you two know each other?” Henryk asks, looking between them with his eyebrows raised. 

“We’ve met,” Jaskier interjects before Geralt can answer, turning a flirtatious smile on Henryk, painfully aware of Geralt’s eyes on him. “And you must be the lord of this house.”

“I am indeed,” Henryk answers. He’s staring straight at Jaskier with singular focus, completely ignoring Geralt’s presence. “And may I have the pleasure of being introduced to you, my dear?”

“You may call me Julian, my lord,” Jaskier purrs, praying that Geralt won’t call him out for using this name. Usually, he’d go for a name that isn’t _his_ , a name that can’t be connected to him, but Geralt is here. 

Geralt can’t know the dangerous game he’s playing, but he knows that Jaskier sometimes introduces himself as Julian before other nobles, so at least it won’t seem too strange for Jaskier to call himself Julian. Hopefully, he knows better than to reveal that Julian is, in fact, Jaskier the master bard. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” Henryk’s gaze is filled with a dark hunger as he rakes his eyes over Jaskier’s body for the tenth time that night. “Will you join me, dear Julian? I’ve seen you making your way around my friends this evening, and I can assure you that I’m far better company.”

“Oh, that I have no doubt about,” Jaskier simpers, taking Henryk’s proffered arm and avoiding Geralt’s gaze. “You throw such a marvellous party, I know that you must be excellent company.”

“I will endeavour not to disappoint you.” Henryk uses his free hand to stroke Jaskier’s face before he starts leading Jaskier to where he’d been standing earlier, and Jaskier follows him, shooting a warning glare towards Geralt, whose mouth is open, likely ready to berate him for falling into the bed of yet another noble.

Geralt shuts his mouth, but his gaze is disapproving as he watches Jaskier get taken away by Henryk, and Jaskier looks away, trying to ignore the shame that fills him. What must Geralt think of him now, clad in a tight, low-cut dress and towering heels, falling into the laps of nobles and pandering to their every whim? He hates that this will be all that Geralt sees of him, hates that Geralt will think him a whore, a slut, but he refuses to let Geralt know what his true motives are.

He may have ruined his image in Geralt’s eyes forever, but he will not let Geralt see him as a killer.

Jaskier feels Geralt’s gaze boring into his back as he leaves with Henryk, and it’s only with years of training and experience that he ignores it, turning a coy smile on Henryk and nodding along to his words, interjecting at the appropriate intervals. 

Perhaps Geralt will know Jaskier well enough to leave him and Henryk alone. After all, Jaskier’s own sexual exploits are no secret, and Geralt knows enough to not bother him. But this time, it’s different - Geralt is acting as Henryk’s bodyguard, and as much as he may loathe the nobility, Jaskier knows that Geralt takes his duties seriously. It’s more than likely that Geralt would stick to Henryk’s side the whole night, and Jaskier will have to deal with that.

As Jaskier falls into Henryk’s lap with a husky giggle, he wonders whether, perhaps, the fact that Geralt _knows_ Jaskier would mean that he’d leave Jaskier and Henryk alone, giving Jaskier a window of opportunity. Gods, he hopes so - it would make the job far easier if he didn’t have to evade Geralt.

Unfortunately, Henryk does not have a goblet of wine for Jaskier to poison, nor does he let Jaskier’s hands wander to exposed skin for his rings to make contact, and as much as Jaskier would like to bury a knife into his heart right then and there, he can’t do so in the middle of the ballroom with so many eyes on him, with _Geralt’s_ eyes on him. 

So he bides his time, knowing that eventually, Henryk would bring them somewhere private, if his steadily darkening eyes are anything to go by.

He’s right.

“You are a delight,” Henryk murmurs, swiping his thumb across Jaskier’s bottom lip. His thumb comes away tinted red, and Jaskier leans in. 

“Thank you,” he hums, running his hands over Henryk’s chest. “I try.”

Henryk glances out at the ballroom, looking at the nobles who are well on their way to becoming utterly inebriated this deep in the night, the party becoming loud and raucous around them. “Shall we try and get a little more… privacy?”

“I would love to.” Jaskier slides off Henryk’s lap, letting his eyes fill with promise. “Lead the way, my lord.”

Henryk laces their fingers together and leads him through the ballroom, weaving through crowds of nobles as they head towards a side door, and Jaskier is almost confident that everything will work out perfectly, until Geralt cuts in front of them.

It takes everything in Jaskier to suppress an annoyed groan. He’d been _so close_ , but he should’ve known - Geralt always, always takes a job seriously. Jaskier wonders if Geralt knows of what Henryk has done, the inhumane exploitation of the villagers, the rape of young men and women, his utter lack of morals. 

Likely not. After all, as gruff as he may seem, Geralt is the best person that Jaskier has ever met, good and compassionate deep in his core, and if he had known of Henryk’s horrendous actions, Jaskier knows that he would’ve declined the contract, refusing to play bodyguard to such a disgusting man, rich as he may be. 

“Where are you going, my lord?” Geralt asks. He looks from Henryk to Jaskier, face inscrutable, but Jaskier spots the telltale twitch of his mouth that betrays how troubled he feels, and Jaskier tries not to melt into a puddle of shame under Geralt’s attention.

He must think terribly of Jaskier now, having seen the way he’d fallen into the laps of nearly all the nobles here, the way he’s currently hanging onto Henryk like nothing more than a whore, and Jaskier has to fight to hide the shame from his face. 

Geralt had always known that Jaskier sleeps around, but this - _this_ is something else entirely, something that undoubtedly ruins Geralt’s perception of him completely and utterly. Jaskier can only hope that Geralt won’t hold this against him, that their friendship is salvageable, that Geralt won’t look at him differently, like he’s a complete stranger. 

And - shit, what if he suspects Jaskier? There’s something wary in Geralt’s eyes, and surely Geralt shouldn’t suspect him, not after two decades of travelling together. But then, this is the first time that Geralt has seen Jaskier like this before a noble court, and Jaskier has given no reason for Geralt to trust him, not after how Geralt now realises that Jaskier must have been keeping such exploits a secret from him. 

Jaskier averts his gaze, determined not to meet Geralt’s eyes, unsure if he would be able to take the judgement and disapproval there, the betrayal and the distrust.

“To my chambers,” Henryk says brusquely, his hot grip tightening on Jaskier’s hand. “Do not worry, witcher. We'll be fine.”

“You hired me to protect you,” Geralt growls, looming over Henryk with an impressive scowl, and Henryk flinches back slightly. “I take my jobs seriously.”

“Nothing will happen,” Henryk protests. “Julian and I will head straight to my chambers.”

Geralt snorts, jerking his chin at Jaskier. “ _He_ won’t be able to protect you from whatever threat you’re afraid of.” Jaskier has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his mouth shut, fighting the urge to offer a biting remark at Geralt’s dismissal of him. Geralt barely spares him a glance, his eyes narrowing dangerously at Henryk as he bites out, “Let me do my job for the night, and then you can be rid of me. _My lord_.”

“Stay here, witcher,” Henryk snaps, recovering from his earlier fear. He tugs Jaskier’s hand and starts moving towards the door swiftly. “I will see you later.”

Henryk brings Jaskier through the door, and Jaskier spots Geralt trying to follow them through the crowd, but before he can reach them, Henryk shuts and locks the door, shutting the ballroom out.

“There,” he says with a satisfied smile, a smile that Jaskier returns. With Geralt out of the way, Jaskier can get rid of Henryk swiftly and efficiently, and then he can play the innocent damsel who’d been no more than an innocent witness to an assassination. “Now the witcher won’t be able to bother us.”

“Perfect,” Jaskier says, making himself giggle slightly, and Henryk reaches up to card a hand through his hair.

“Come now, pet,” he coos, and Jaskier lets Henryk lead him up winding stairs, through lavish halls, until they stop before a set of heavy oak doors. Henryk turns around, one hand creeping down Jaskier’s body as the other tugs him closer, closer, until Henryk is kissing him.

It’s disgusting, and Jaskier hates it, hates kissing the horrible man who’d been responsible for the death and poverty of so many, but he’s experienced enough to hide away his hatred and disgust, forcing himself to kiss back with enthusiasm. Henryk kicks open the door, Jaskier stumbling after him, and then -

Strong arms grab Jaskier from behind, forcing his arms behind his back and dragging him forcefully into the bedroom, and _fuck._

Jaskier’s first instinct is to break away, but he forces himself to think clearly. Somehow, Henryk must have caught on to Jaskier’s plan, if his smug grin is anything to go by, and now that Jaskier is focusing, he can feel the presence of several men behind him, keeping him in place, and several more have appeared from the shadows in front of him, flanking Henryk.

Jaskier curses himself for not noticing earlier. He should’ve known - he was trained better than this, and his enhanced senses usually inform him of any potential ambushes, but he’d been so distracted, distracted by Geralt, by his worries of Geralt’s judgement, that his senses hadn’t picked up Henryk’s guards. Foolish, so foolish.

“Let me go!” Jaskier cries, pretending to struggle against the men gripping his arms. He’s far stronger than them and can easily break out of their hold, but he bides his time, trying to scope out how many men he’s up against, scanning over the room and noting that there’s a window. “Henryk, what -”

“Hush, my boy,” Henryk croons, and the grip on Jaskier’s arms tightens, rendering him immobile. “You didn’t think I would catch on to your little scheme, did you?”

“What do you mean?” Jaskier plays up the desperation in his voice, arranging his face into a mask of utter fear. “What’s going _on_ , Henryk?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Henryk snaps, striding towards him until he’s face to face with Jaskier. “You know exactly what you’re doing. Drop the act.”

Well, it seems that there’s no point in dragging out the pretense, then. Jaskier lets his face fall into cool impassivity, delighted when unease crosses Henryk’s face.

“You caught me,” he drawls, dropping the act of the sweet, seductive boy. “Congratulations. Are you proud of myself, my lord?”

“Oh, very,” Henryk answers, smirking, and Jaskier wants to punch his face in. “Look at you, thinking you could get the upper hand on me, when in fact I’ve been waiting for this.”

Jaskier keeps his expression even, letting nothing show on his face. “Is that not why you hired the witcher? To protect you?” he questions, and if Henryk is expecting any fear at the mention of Geralt, too bad, because the last thing Jaskier would fear in this mansion is Geralt. “I’m rather confused as to why you sent him away. Seems rather foolish and arrogant of you, when _you_ were the one who hired him in the first place.”

Henryk laughs, an ugly, rasping sound. “Oh, dear pet.” Jaskier bristles at the endearment. “Do you think I’m that daft? You’re the White Wolf’s bard, the great Jaskier, are you not?”

In hindsight, using the name _Julian_ hadn’t been subtle, and he’d revealed that he knew Geralt, which must have tipped Henryk off. Jaskier curses himself - that had been a sloppy mistake. Very few people know Geralt, and even fewer actually manage a full conversation with him. It must have been obvious who Jaskier actually was.

A sloppy, amateurish mistake. He’s losing his touch. 

When Jaskier stays silent, Henryk laughs again. “Once I recognised you, I realised that the witcher would probably be reluctant to hurt you, so I sent him away.” A smug smile stretches across his face, arrogance dripping from every pore. “I must admit that I didn’t expect the great bard Jaskier to be the one sent after me. Should I be flattered? Will you sing me to death, little lark?”

Jaskier grits his teeth, longing to drive a dagger into that cruel, arrogant face, but he settles for a sickly sweet smile. “Perhaps I will.”

“Hmm.” Henryk reaches out and cups Jaskier’s cheek, his movements almost tender. “What a shame that you’re the one trying to kill me. _Such_ a pretty face.” He sighs, letting his hand fall back to his side. “Alas, I do value my life, and unfortunately, I must kill you. Although… perhaps I could keep your lovely face with me, or your beautiful blue eyes, or your musician’s hands. It will make quite the collection, don’t you think?”

His words send a wave of disgust through Jaskier, and he growls, “You perverted b-”

“Guards,” Henryk says, waving his hand. “Kill him.”

Jaskier feels the whistle of a sword through the air, heading straight for his neck, and, using a burst of enhanced strength, he breaks out of the men’s hold on him, rolling out of the way of the sword, which swings through empty air where his head had been. 

“Get him!” Henryk shouts, panicked, and Jaskier leaps out of the way as another guard draws a sword on him. Several men converge around Henryk, protecting him, and Jaskier snarls, unsheathing a dagger as he ducks under a swipe from a sword, and buries it into the neck of his attacker.

For fuck’s sake, he’d hoped that he’d be able to quietly kill Henryk and leave the mansion, then head out of town with Geralt the next day, leaving the village behind before word spreads that Lord Henryk was killed and a few dozen nobles were poisoned to death,. Now, though, he has to fight his way out, which isn’t too much of a problem, but Jaskier _likes_ this dress. He doesn’t want to get blood on it, but oh well.

A guard lunges at him, sword swinging, and Jaskier blocks it with his dagger. When the guard blinks at him, clearly not expecting it, Jaskier takes advantage of his surprise to land a solid kick in his gut, sending him flying backwards. He turns just in time to parry another blow from behind, and he quickly disarms his attacker, stabbing him in the chest. 

Jaskier turns to the remaining guards with a sweet smile, spinning his daggers in his hands as he stalks towards them. “So, boys,” he purrs, relishing in the way some of them back away. “Who’s next?”

Two guards rush at him, and Jaskier’s smile shifts into a savage grin as he crouches and kicks the legs out from under one guard, and when the other guard tries to punch him, Jaskier catches his fist and flips him over, slamming him into the ground before driving his blade into his chest. Before the first guard can get up, Jaskier leaps over and slashes his dagger across his throat, leaving a bloody line. 

He spins around and kicks another guard in the head, and he grimaces slightly at the sound of his dress splitting. He’d _liked_ that dress, and now it’s destroyed and splattered with blood.

“Ugh,” he groans, knocking aside a knife and ducking under a blade swinging for his head. “You made me ruin my _dress_ , you arseholes, you’re going to _pay_.”

Then a sword catches Jaskier’s eyes, a slightly curved sword that tapers to a deadly point, silver glinting in the light leading down to an ornately engraved hilt. It’s wielded by one of the guards protecting Henryk, and gods, that’s a _nice_ sword. He changes course towards the guard, batting aside several blows, and when the guard tries to stab him with the sword, Jaskier dances to the side and launches himself at the guard, grabbing his wrist and squeezing.

The guard screams and drops his sword, and Jaskier neatly dispatches him before picking the sword up. There are a few guards left, and now that he has a sword in hand, Jaskier makes quick work of them, flinging one his daggers straight into the skull of one guard, who drops like a stone.

He blocks a blow from his left with the sword, and uses the dagger in his right hand to slash across a guard’s chest, the deadly blade cutting easily through his shirt, then raising his left arm to parry a strike from yet another guard. Jaskier spins around and knocks his attacker to the ground, driving his sword into the guard’s chest and yanking it out in a satisfying spray of blood, and finally, there are only two guards left, and Henryk, trembling in the corner.

Jaskier bares his teeth, flying high on the adrenaline of the fight. “Ah, ah, Henryk,” he coos, shaking his head as he walks slowly towards the trembling lord. “You really thought that a few dozen guards would defeat me?”

“Kill him, you useless bastards!” Henryk screams at his remaining two guards, who both look pale with fear. “Go, kill him!”

Jaskier stops a small distance away from them, relishing in the terror on their faces. What a sight he must make, his long red dress split up one leg, splattered with blood and gore, the kohl lining his eyes likely smudged by the sweat beading on his face, a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other, both stained crimson.

“Well, you heard your lord.” Jaskier tilts his head and raises a hand, beckoning, encouraging them to come towards him. “Surely you can take a measly little bard in a dress?”

They rush him all at once, swords swinging, and Jaskier laughs, wild and unrestrained, as he leaps and flips over them, slashing his sword to decapitate one of them right before he swings his heeled foot right into the face of the other guard, knocking him to the ground and finishing him off with a sword through the neck.

Then Jaskier is left alone with a trembling Henryk, who’d tried to make a break for the door when Jaskier had been dispatching the last two guards. 

“Oh no you don’t,” Jaskier snarls, advancing towards him, and Henryk breaks into a run.

“Guards!” he screams once he’s out of the door, and Jaskier pursues him into the hallway. “Guards!”

“There’s no one coming. You won’t get away from me, you bastard,” Jaskier growls as Henryk dashes around a turn in the halls. Jaskier is nearly upon him, and just before the turn, Jaskier leaps up and launches himself off the wall, bringing his sword down on Henryk’s head.

Then his sword clashes with another, and behind their crossed swords, Jaskier meets golden eyes. 

“Fuck.” Jaskier immediately takes a step back, lowering his sword. Geralt doesn’t lower his, staring at Jaskier with narrowed eyes, taking in the blood and the blades and the torn dress, and Jaskier’s mind scrabbles wildly for a plausible explanation that isn’t _he’s trying to kill Henryk_. “Fuck, Geralt, this isn’t -”

“This isn’t what it looks like?” Geralt cuts him off, voice gruff. “What the _fuck_ , Jaskier? What are you - why are you -” he uses his free hand to gesture at Jaskier’s… well, everything. “What are you _doing_ , Jaskier? Because it looks like you’re trying to _kill_ him.”

“Wow, that’s a lot of words,” Jaskier tries to joke weakly, but Geralt silences him with a glare. Swallowing thickly, Jaskier fumbles for an excuse. “Well, you see, I - uh -”

“Is this why you came to the party, dressed like -” Geralt cuts himself off, his eyes darting to where Jaskier’s dress is torn up his leg before returning to Jaskier’s face, and Jaskier squints, because if he isn’t mistaken, there’s a hint of colour tinging the tip of Geralt’s ears, and Jaskier tries not to recoil in shame at how angry Geralt must be, how furious and betrayed. “Is that why? So that you could kill him?”

Geralt’s eyes are burning into him, and Jaskier’s tongue is heavy and leaden. He wants to lie, but it’s too late now - Geralt has seen him swinging his sword at Henryk, has seen the blood that stains his dress, and it doesn’t take much to conclude that Jaskier is trying to kill Henryk.

“Geralt -”

“Why, Jaskier?” Geralt demands. His sword wavers in his hand, even as he takes a menacing step towards Jaskier. “Since when do you - you can’t just _kill_ people.”

“Why, you ask?” Jaskier thinks about the gruff woman who’d hired him, the shadows lurking behind her eyes, the pain in her voice when she’d recounted the terrible atrocities Henryk had committed, atrocities against the common people, against young men and women, against children, and anger and fury burns in Jaskier’s chest.

“Why?” he repeats, aware that he sounds slightly hysterical right now, but he can’t bring himself to care. “ _Why?_ Have you heard of what your dear lord has done, Geralt? Have you heard about the young people he’s raped, some of them not even _adults_? Have you heard about the way he forces work on the people, and never gives them anything in return, leaving them to starve in poverty? Have you heard about the way he takes and takes and _takes_ from the villagers, takes the fruits of their labour for his own benefit, and doesn’t give them a single copper as payment?”

He’s breathing heavily, blazing fury fuelling his words, and Jaskier looks straight into Geralt’s wide eyes. “That’s right, Geralt,” Jaskier breathes, gritting his teeth at the onslaught of utter rage that threatens to consume him. “The lord who hired you to protect him has every reason to be wiped from the world. Don’t you remember the villagers when we entered the town? Don’t you remember how miserable they looked, how skinny and starved?”

“Jaskier, you can’t be sure -” Geralt defends, but he sounds unsure, a question lurking behind his voice.

“Do you think I do such things lightly?” Jaskier questions, cutting Geralt off. Words pour out of him in waves, and he rides the tide of his anger. “I don’t kill people for _fun_ , Geralt. I don’t trust one single source. I went around the village, questioned children and parents, husbands and wives, workers and labourers, and they all told me the same thing.”

Jaskier takes a step forward, pointing his dagger at Henryk, who’s huddled behind Geralt. Geralt’s eyes stray to the dagger, and he tenses, but doesn’t attack. “They all told me that he’s a horrible, awful person that the world would be better off without. They all told me of their suffering at his hands. You weren’t there, Geralt,” Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, remembering the grimy faces and the tired eyes. “You didn’t _see_ them. They were…”

“Is it true?” Geralt doesn’t turn away from Jaskier, but he directs his question to Henryk, whose face twists in panic. 

“N-no, the bard spouts lies!” Henryk sputters, eyes wide and frantic. “I have never done anything of the sort! Kill the bard, witcher! He tried to kill me for no reason, I’m innocent, _he’s_ the one who should be killed?”

“ _I’m_ the one who should be killed?” Jaskier laughs scornfully. “I won’t say that I’m a good person. But I, at least, have compassion for others, whereas you only hold cruelty in your heart.”

“The villagers l-love me!” Henryk cries, pleading to Geralt, whose eyes have gone dark and cold. “You must believe me, witcher! Your bard _lies_. After all, he lied to you about not killing people, but here he is, trying to kill me, an innocent, and he slaughtered my guards without remorse! _He_ is the evil one here, not me!”

“Shut up,” Geralt growls, low and guttural, and Henryk’s mouth snaps shut. “Jaskier, tell me more.”

Jaskier feels almost dizzy with relief. Geralt is giving him a chance, and Jaskier rushes to say, “A young woman, twenty years of age, told me that Henryk violated her virtue four years ago.” Jaskier pauses, recalling the trauma that had been evident in every line of the young woman’s body when she’d talked to him. 

“A mother with three children, all under the age of twelve, told me that Henryk forces her children to work for him from first light to twilight.” The mother had been gaunt, cheeks hollow and sunken, and her children had been nothing more than skin and bones as they’d clung to her legs, dark eyes tired and frightened. 

At Jaskier’s words, Geralt’s face twists, anger and horror warring on his face, and Jaskier continues, pushing past the painful memories of the village’s suffering and misery. 

“A worker told me that he barely gets a scrap of bread a day, and he only has time for a few hours of sleep before he’s forced to labour again. A man told me -”

“I’ve heard enough.” Geralt’s face has contorted up into a grimace, and Jaskier smiles grimly to see a similar anger burning in his eyes. “Do you mean to tell me that the villagers lie, Henryk?”

“N-no - _yes_ , they lie, witcher, and your bard is lying!” Henryk looks pathetic, slumped on the ground begging for mercy. “Bards are masters of stories, and your bard is spinning a blatantly false tale to incriminate me so that he has an excuse to kill me!”

“I will not deny that Jaskier is a master at storytelling,” Geralt rumbles, turning his body slightly so he can face Henryk, and Jaskier’s heart speeds up. Shit, Geralt _has_ to believe him. “And yes, I did not know of this side of his… profession before.”

Geralt pauses, and Jaskier sucks in a breath, bracing himself. If Geralt chooses not to believe him, which Jaskier can’t blame him for, not after he’s revealed a part of himself that Geralt has never seen, then Jaskier may have to fight his way out. He refuses to hurt Geralt, doesn’t want to fight him, but Jaskier will _not_ let Henryk continue to spread his evil unhindered. He will not let any more innocents suffer under Henryk’s greedy hands.

“But I know when Jaskier is telling the truth, and when he’s lying,” Geralt continues, turning to meet Jaskier’s eyes, steady and calm. “And now… now, he’s telling the truth.”

Jaskier lets out a relieved exhale. Geralt _believes_ him. Geralt believes him, even after he realised that Jaskier’s been hiding something from him for years, and even though there’s still something wary in Geralt’s eyes, he looks at Jaskier like he’s always done - with trust.

“You may have hired me, Henryk, and usually, I do my job, nothing more.” Geralt turns a deadly glare on Henryk, who freezes in place. “But I cannot condone the suffering of innocents, and you have caused far too much of that.”

Then Geralt nods to Jaskier, stepping to the side, leaving Henryk open and vulnerable, no one left to protect him. Jaskier smiles, the promise of death dancing on his lips, and panic fills Henryk’s eyes as he tries to scramble away, scrabbling to his feet and trying to flee. 

Jaskier tosses his sword aside and stalks towards Henryk, letting him have the momentary illusion of escape, before he pounces on Henryk, pinning him to the floor with a knee on his chest and a dagger pressed to his throat.

Leaning down so that his mouth is directly above Henryk’s ear, Jaskier hisses, low enough that Geralt can’t hear, “Be grateful that Geralt is here, _my lord_. If he weren’t, your death would be much, _much_ slower. The death I will give you is a far kinder death than you deserve.” 

When he straightens up, digging the knife deeper against Henryk’s throat, he’s gratified to be greeted with a white, trembling face, and he wrinkles his nose at the smell of urine that fills the air when Henryk pisses himself in fear.

“Mercy!” Henryk begs, quivering under Jaskier’s blade. “Mercy, please, I’ll do better, please -”

“You should’ve done better a long time ago,” Jaskier sneers. “Goodbye, Henryk. Good riddance.” 

He drags his dagger across Henryk’s throat, blood bubbling up in the wake of his blade, and Jaskier watches as Henryk’s eyes glaze over, as his heartbeat slows, as his breathing ceases, blood trickling from the wound on his neck to pool around his head in a crimson halo. 

When Henryk’s body stills and cools, Jaskier pulls himself to his feet, wiping his dagger on the folds on his dress, and slowly turns around to face Geralt.

Geralt is watching him, face inscrutable, and Jaskier resists the urge to fidget, sheathing his dagger and walking over to pick up the sword he’d taken from the guard. 

“Should we go?” Jaskier asks hesitantly, casting a glance down the hall. He can still hear the guests mingling in the ballroom downstairs, but there’s no pounding of footsteps that indicates the approach of more guards. Still, it doesn’t hurt to be careful. “Henryk called for guards. They might be on their way.”

Geralt grunts. He’s still looking at Jaskier with unreadable eyes, and Jaskier sighs, turning to head back to Henryk’s room. 

“We need to leave,” Jaskier calls out from behind his shoulder, and finally, he hears Geralt start to follow him. “Obviously, we can’t very well escape through the ballroom, and unless you know your way around these halls -”

“I don’t.”

“Well, neither of us know our way around, so our best bet is...” Jaskier trails off as he steps into Henryk’s room, his voice dying in his throat as he takes in the utter carnage. The bodies of Henryk’s guards are strewn across the floor, their bodies pale and crooked. Blood stains the luxurious carpets, splattering across the opulent walls, and Jaskier spots a decapitated head or two resting on the floor. 

He swallows at the sight of the destruction that _he_ had wrought, the death that stretches out before him. Jaskier is no stranger to bodies, no stranger to death, no stranger to killing, but to be confronted with his actions - with his _slaughter_ , as Henryk had called it…

He looks away, reminding himself that they’d been under Henryk’s command, reminding himself that the guards had been as complicit in Henryk’s atrocities as Henryk himself had been. The villagers had told him of the brutality of Henryk’s guards, their sadistic tendencies and their love of inflicting pain, and Jaskier pushes away the guilt at the bloody sight before him.

They deserved it, and the villagers are better off for it. 

Behind him, there’s a sharp intake of breath, and when Jaskier abruptly remembers that Geralt is behind him, cold realisation dawns. Geralt had thought him a bright, innocent bard, a bard who’d never seen violence or bloodshed, who’d been helpless and vulnerable, who hadn’t been corrupted by the world - and dread pools in Jaskier’s stomach.

Now - now, with such destruction laid out before him, Geralt sees who Jaskier truly is. A killer. 

Jaskier fights back the bitter burn of tears at the back of his eyes. Jaskier the bard is a persona he’d built for himself, a persona of who Jaskier wanted himself to be, instead of the killing machine that he was trained to be, and Jaskier had hoped that all Geralt would see of him was the bard, and nothing more. 

And now, Geralt sees Jaskier in his entirety, in his capacity for death and destruction, and gods, Jaskier had _hoped_ that he would be by Geralt’s side for as long as possible, but with Geralt witnessing Jaskier’s true colours, Jaskier knows that he will be pushed away. After all, Geralt has enough violence in his life. He doesn’t need any more, and he doesn’t need Jaskier going around and killing humans, especially not with the Blaviken incident still hovering over his head, decades after it had happened.

“Uhm, right,” Jaskier croaks, bringing his attention back to the matter at hand. He starts heading towards the window, determinedly _not_ looking at the bodies below him as he steps carefully around them, the hem of his dress soaking up the blood on the ground. “Right. Our best bet is to escape from the window, since we can’t leave anywhere else.”

Reaching the window, Jaskier fiddles with it slightly and it opens up. “It’s not too high,” Jaskier notes, retreating into the cold, calculating mindset that he’d been trained to have, pushing his tumultuous emotions down, down, down. “And I don’t see many guards posted around. We can sneak out and head back to the inn, then get back on the road.”

“You know how to do that well, don’t you?” For a moment, Jaskier freezes, thinking that Geralt is condemning him for escaping after killing people, but then he hears the amusement in Geralt’s voice, the light playfulness familiar from their easy banter, and Jaskier realises that Geralt must be referring to how often Jaskier needs to escape from cuckolded husbands and wives, the way Geralt would have to bail him out half the time, and the tension eases from his shoulders.

“Well, of course,” Jaskier says, trying to maintain a light, playful tone that hides his nerves and apprehension. “I have a reputation to uphold, Geralt, who do you think I am?”

Geralt huffs a soft laugh behind him, the exasperated sound familiar and warm, and Jaskier lets himself hope that Geralt doesn’t hate him after what he’s witnessed today. If Geralt can let himself laugh at Jaskier, if he can let himself banter easily, then maybe - maybe Geralt doesn’t hate him. Maybe Jaskier can stay by Geralt’s side.

Jaskier clambers out the window, clutching at the edge. It’s not too far up, definitely not the worst window he’s escaped from, and from what Jaskier can see, there seems to be some decent handholds on the walls that he can use as he climbs down.

Casting a cursory glance around, making sure that there aren't any guards, Jaskier swings his leg over the edge of the window, digging his feet into some holes in the walls. Then he starts descending, his hands and feet finding handholds and footholds with practised ease, and when the ground is close enough that it’s safe for Jaskier to let go, he pushes himself off the wall, executing a tight flip in the air and landing neatly on his feet.

Not that Jaskier is trying to impress Geralt, of course. He’s just practising his agility. 

Shaking the thought from his mind, Jaskier glances up to where Geralt is peering out the window, moonlight bathing his face in silver as he looks at Jaskier with wide eyes.

“Come on,” Jaskier mouths with a grin, knowing that Geralt will be able to see what he’s saying even in the darkness of the night. 

Geralt carefully climbs out of the window, and slowly makes his way down, his movements careful and methodical, before he jumps down, landing next to Jaskier.

“That was slow,” Jaskier teases tentatively, unsure if the banter is welcomed.

Geralt rolls his eyes. “I was being careful, unlike you,” he retorts, and Jaskier beams, beyond happy that Geralt _doesn’t hate him_.

“Sure, old man,” Jaskier returns playfully, and pokes Geralt’s face when he glares. “Come on, we should go.”

There aren’t many guards stationed here, since Henryk had likely brought most of them in to capture Jaskier, so Jaskier and Geralt are able to sneak away quickly without drawing their attention, slipping past the gates undetected. 

They walk through the village, making their way back to the inn, and Geralt is silent. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just wanted to write a feral bard who's stabby and has a lot of knives, kicking ass while wearing a dress, and his utterly smitten witcher


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry for the long wait - this was already completed when i posted the first chapter but i've been so busy that i've neglected posting this but.. here! have some feels!

Jaskier wonders what’s going through Geralt’s mind. The teasing and bantering seem to mean that Geralt is happy to fall back into their usual dynamic, but Jaskier remembers the clash of their swords, remembers the wariness in Geralt’s eyes before Jaskier had killed Henryk, remembers Geralt’s intake of breath when he’d seen the utter destruction that Jaskier had wrought upon Henryk’s guards, and he retreats into himself, bracing himself for Geralt’s reaction once they’re back at the inn.

Thankfully, the innkeeper is dozing off and there’s no one around, so Geralt and Jaskier are able to make their way back to their room without anyone spotting the blood that Jaskier is coated in, his torn dress, and the bloody sword that he’s clutching in his hands.

Once they’re back in their room, Jaskier shuts the door and locks it. When he turns around, Geralt is standing behind him, still and unmoving as he just _looks_ at Jaskier, eyes sharp and piercing.

Jaskier swallows past the heavy lump that has suddenly formed in his throat. “You must have… questions.”

Geralt hums, a hum that Jaskier can’t decipher. “I do.”

Jaskier slowly sets down the sword on the table beside him, forcing his hands to stay still, pushing back the urge to twist his fingers into the folds of his dress. “Go,” he whispers, voice raspy. The hope from earlier has faded away into dread, into a sinking feeling that slithers down his spine, into a bitter taste that lingers on his tongue. “Ask.”

“You’re an assassin,” Geralt states, his eyes moving downwards to where Jaskier’s dress is split open, revealing the dagger strapped to his thigh, dried copper coating the blade.

“Yes,” Jaskier confirms softly. He wants to hide, wants to erase this whole night from both of their minds. He wants to go back to the way it was before, without this tension between them, without the knowledge of Jaskier being a killer hanging in the air, but it’s too late. “I… yes. I suppose you could say that I’m an assassin.”

Geralt nods. The room is dark, but Jaskier can make out the lines of his face as clearly as he would be able to in the light, and he can’t pinpoint Geralt’s expression, can’t decipher what Geralt is feeling.

“How long?”

Jaskier looks away, staring hard at the wooden floor.  _How long?_

For as long as he can remember.

Gods, was he ever _not_ an assassin? This is what he was built for, what he was made into, what he was trained brutally for. An assassin, a killing machine, cold and efficient, skilled and utterly deadly, darkness creeping in behind sweet seduction and irresistible flirtation. 

Built from nothing, and made into something _more_.

When Jaskier doesn’t answer, Geralt asks again, voice as patient as ever, “Jaskier, how long?”

A broken laugh tears from Jaskier’s throat, grating past the walls of his mouth. “Gods, how long? I have no idea, how _long_ have I been like this?” He hides his face in his hands, huffing another laugh, broken and pitiful. “I… what a question.”

Geralt waits, a silent and steady presence as Jaskier takes deep breaths into his hands, before finally lifting his head up to meet Geralt’s eyes, which are warm with concern.

“You don’t have to tell me -” Geralt starts, but Jaskier shakes his head.

“I do,” he whispers, knowing that he can’t hide from Geralt any longer, knowing that he doesn’t want to. “I want to be honest with you. I want to tell you, but I just… You know, I don’t even know how long. It’s been…”

Jaskier tries to gather the chaotic whirl of thoughts that have gathered in his mind, the mess of memories and pain that linger perpetually at the back of his brain, brought to the surface by Geralt’s question, and Geralt waits, eyes calm as he watches Jaskier.

“I don’t remember my childhood… before,” Jaskier begins. There is nothing left of his childhood, no lingering memory of a warm touch from a loving parent, no residual lullaby lurking at the back of his mind, nothing. It was all wiped away. “I’m not… I was made. For all I know, I wasn’t born, but _made_.”

“What do you mean?” Geralt asks hesitantly. His hand hovers in the air between them, and Jaskier wonders if Geralt is trying to reassure him, trying to ground him with a touch.

His earliest memories are the clash of swords, the pain of lashes hitting his back, agony coursing through his veins as he’s made stronger, faster, _better_. “I was made for this.” Jaskier gestures vaguely at himself, gestures at the blood and the knives. “They built me to be - to be _this_ , this assassin, this… killer.”

Geralt’s eyes fill with sorrow, and Jaskier knows that he must understand. Geralt had told him about the Trials once, years ago, in a meadow of flowers underneath the glowing gaze of the stars, had told him about the pain of being torn apart and remade, and Jaskier had compared them, the similarity of their experiences.

They’re so very similar, made to be dangerous and deadly, made to be different, made to be _better_. And yet, Geralt has turned out a far better person than Jaskier, compassionate and kind and _good_ , whereas Jaskier is no more than a silent killer, taking the lives of his fellow men, creeping into their beds and slitting their throats.

Geralt has morals. Jaskier had lost his when a knife had first been placed into his hand, when he’d been shaped into death and destruction, when he’d killed his first human.

“They?” Geralt questions, finally settling his hand on Jaskier’s arm, a warm, reassuring weight that grounds him in the present, pulling him away from the past.

“My… trainers. My makers.” Jaskier brings up his other hand to cover Geralt’s, seeking comfort in the midst of painful memories as he takes a deep breath, steeling himself. “They trained me, taught me everything they knew. They made me better. I learned to use knives, swords, about every weapon you can think of.”

Everything is a weapon to him now. He can fashion anything into something lethal, and it terrifies him how easy this violence is, how easily it comes to him, how much they taught him that is now second nature and instinct. 

“I was taught to use my body, my face, my voice, to my best advantage.” He knows he looks good. He knows how to emphasise his assets, how to utilise them effectively to get close enough for a clean kill. “For years, I knew nothing else but what I learned from them.”

“You’re more than what they made you,” Geralt says fiercely, and Jaskier looks up, startled by the vehemence in Geralt’s voice. “You are more than that, Jaskier, and you know that.”

“Am I?” Jaskier bursts out, thinking of the guards strewn across the room, thinking of Henryk, thinking of Geralt’s intake of breath when he’d seen that, and his undoubtedly disgusted expression. “It’s all I’ve done. It’s all I’ve known. You’ve seen it. You’ve seen what I’m capable of.”

“I have,” Geralt murmurs. His voice is gentle, and he moves his hand down Jaskier’s arm to clasp his hand, tangling their fingers together, and Jaskier stares at their joined hands in wonder, his bloodied skin standing stark against the paleness of Geralt’s. “But that’s not all you are. You love music, you love singing, you love your lute. You’re bright and joyous, and you yell at me whenever I accidentally crush a flower. You’re not just a killer, Jaskier. You’re more than that.”

“That was just a _mask_!” Jaskier cries, the truth pouring out of him in a flood. “It was a mask that I constructed, Geralt, it was a mask of who I’ve always wanted to be. It isn’t me, _this_ is me!” He shakes off Geralt’s hand and spreads his arms wide, exposing himself, the darkness and bloodshed that pervades every part of him. “Me, a killer. The bard you knew was nothing more than a mask to - to cover _this_.”

Geralt doesn’t flinch away from him the way Jaskier had expected him to. Instead, he places his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders, gently pushing Jaskier’s arms down. “Do you mean to tell me that you don’t enjoy singing? That you don’t enjoy playing your lute? That you,” his throat bobs, and insecurity flits through his eyes, “that you didn’t enjoy our travels together?”

“No, of course not!” Jaskier exclaims, horrified. He _loves_ his lute, he loves playing and singing, loves soaking up the energy of his audience as he plays before them, revelling in the way they sing and dance along to him. He loves composing, loves asking Geralt questions for details that he could weave into his songs.

And he _loves_ travelling with Geralt. Geralt has been by his side for two decades, longer than anyone else. Geralt cares for him, even though he doesn’t show it easily, and Geralt hasn’t left. Geralt is _here_ with him still. He’d been the one to see who Jaskier had always wanted to be, and Jaskier wants nothing more than to stay by Geralt’s side.

“Then why are you saying that you’re nothing more than a killer, than what they made you?” Geralt asks, taking both of Jaskier’s hands in his own. “I know you enjoy your music. I can see it in your eyes. And I know - I hope that you’ve enjoyed our travels together.”

“I _do_ ,” Jaskier insists. Geralt had been the first person to mean something _more_ in his life, to be more than his trainer or his victim or his acquaintance. Geralt had been his _friend_ , and over the years, he’s come to mean something _more_ to Jaskier.

“Then you’re more than what they made you,” Geralt asserts firmly. He tugs at Jaskier’s hands, drawing them closer. “Do you think I’m nothing more than an emotionless witcher, the Butcher of Blaviken?”

“Geralt, you _know_ I don’t,” Jaskier breathes, horrified that Geralt could even ask such a question.

Geralt smiles softly. “Exactly. So why are you different? If I’m more than just an emotionless witcher, more than the Butcher of Blaviken,” Jaskier bristles at the moniker, “then you’re more than just the assassin that they built you to be.”

Jaskier screws his eyes shut tightly, hating the tears that prick at the edges of his eyes. “We’re different, because I kill humans,” he whispers, low and quiet. “And you don’t. You kill the monsters and creatures that threaten humanity, and I - I kill humans.”

Warm hands cup his face, and Jaskier opens his eyes to see Geralt looking at him sadly, tenderly. “Who’s to say that humans can’t be monsters as well?”

“They _can_ , but it’s - it’s not the _same_ ,” Jaskier insists, but his resolve is weakening under Geralt’s gentle gaze, his warm touch. “I - I’m a murderer, I kill _humans_ , Geralt, not mindless beasts.”

“And yet, humans can commit more monstrous acts than beasts do,” Geralt points out, and he’s being _reasonable_ , and Jaskier knows that he’s right, but still... “Henryk committed atrocities that beasts are incapable of doing, and in the same way I dispose of beasts that threaten innocent humans, you dispose of those cruel, immortal humans who knowingly make others suffer, like Henryk.”

“I’ve killed so many people,” Jaskier whispers, and his eyes burn at the thought of the blood that stains his hands, that stains his whole body, seeping into his very core. “You’re a _good_ person and I - I’m not. How can you just… how are you even here with me right now?”

“Because you’re _good_ ,” Geralt says fiercely. His hands tilt Jaskier’s head so that their foreheads are resting against one another. “And because I care for you. We’ve been travelling together for two decades. I won’t push you away that easily.”

Tears spill from Jaskier’s eyes, and he chokes out, “I - you -”

“You are more than what they made you,” Geralt repeats, moving one hand to thumb away the tears on Jaskier’s face. “And regardless of what you have done, I still want you by my side.”

“How - how?” Jaskier hiccups, confusion and hope and wonder swirling within him alongside a dozen other emotions, elation and guilt and _love_. 

“You think that who you’ve shown to me was a mask,” Geralt’s breath is warm against Jaskier’s face as he speaks, a soothing rumble, “but I know that you like music. You like travelling with me. Some of who you are may be an act, but _I know you_ , Jaskier. And this - what you’ve told me today, it’s just another layer of _you_ that I’m learning about.”

“I hid this from you for so long,” Jaskier whispers, but even as he speaks, he’s unable to stop himself from winding his arms around Geralt’s waist. “How can you forgive me?”

The side of Geralt’s mouth tilts up slightly. “Oh, I’m still mad that you never told me.” Despite his words, his tone is playful, and Jaskier lets his tense shoulders relax, relief washing over him. “But some truths aren’t easy to tell, and I - I know that you _trust_ me. I know that you didn’t tell me because of your own personal misgivings, not because you didn’t trust me.”

“I do trust you,” Jaskier says, the words a ringing truth. He’d once been taught to never trust anybody but himself, to only ever rely on himself, because everyone could betray him, but Geralt had come into his life and shattered all the lessons that he’d been taught. Jaskier trusts Geralt with his life. “I’m sorry I never told you.”

“I understand.” Geralt’s thumb strokes softly across Jaskier’s cheek. “I know it wasn’t really a choice for you to reveal your secret but… thanks for telling me.”

Jaskier leans into Geralt’s touch, unable to help himself. “I hated lying to you,” he confesses. “But I didn’t want you to find out and think differently of me.”

“You’re still you, Jaskier,” Geralt says quietly. “There’s just _more_ about you that I know now. Unless you have more secrets?”

Geralt’s tone lilts up playfully at the end, but Jaskier looks him straight in the eye, trying to convey his sincerity as he vows, “I won’t ever lie to you like this, Geralt. I said that I trust you, and I promise to be honest with you.”

A pleased smile breaks out across Geralt’s face, and for a moment, they’re quiet, wrapped in each other, warmth spreading through Jaskier’s body. 

Tender moments like this are rare, and Jaskier basks in it, in the knowledge that Geralt isn’t rejecting him, isn’t leaving him behind, and - he never thought he’d get to have this. He’s a killer, deadly and efficient, but here he is, with Geralt’s hands cupping his face, his own arms around Geralt’s waist, and it’s more, so much more than he ever thought he’d get to have. 

Like this, Jaskier thinks that he can believe Geralt’s words. He thinks that he can be _more_. 

When Geralt finally speaks after a few beats of silence, his voice is barely audible, Jaskier only just manages to hear it. “Did you always do this? When we travelled together?”

Jaskier exhales shakily, knowing that he can’t lie, not after he’d just promised Geralt his honesty. “Yes. Not always, but… sometimes.”

Geralt hums, and his hands move to lace behind Jaskier’s neck. “Will you keep doing it?”

“I…” What if Geralt doesn’t want him to keep doing it? This is what Jaskier has done his whole life, and the prospect of stopping is unthinkable, and he can’t bear the knowledge that he won’t be able to put an end to horribly corrupt people out there who are making innocents suffer. Can he lie to Geralt, after keeping a secret from him for so long? 

Jaskier hesitates a second too long, and his indecision must show on his face, because Geralt’s eyes soften as he pulls Jaskier closer. 

“I won’t stop you from doing it,” Geralt reassures, and Jaskier slumps in relief, glad that he won’t have to choose between Geralt and his job, between two things that mean so much to him. “Just… tell me, okay? I - I just want to know where you are. That you’re safe.”

Jaskier cracks a wry smile. “I’ve been doing this my whole life, Geralt. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Oh, I know.” Geralt unlaces his hands from around Jaskier’s neck, and Jaskier has to bite back a whine at the loss. But then one of Geralt’s hands settles on the dagger sheathed on Jaskier’s bicep, and the other drifts to the retractable staff strapped to his back, hidden by his cape, and Jaskier sucks in a breath at Geralt’s hands in his weapons, suppressing his instinctual reaction to immobilise Geralt and prevent him from taking his weapons. 

“I know that you can defend yourself,” Geralt murmurs, his hands two points of warmth of Jaskier’s body, and gods, the touch is so _nice_ , so tender and gentle and wonderful, and Jaskier feels himself swaying towards Geralt, unable to help himself. “I know you’re perfectly capable. I’ve seen it. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t still worry.”

Jaskier lets out a choked laugh, not quite able to believe that this is happening. “If I’d known that all it would take for you to admit that you care for me was me killing a bunch of people, I would’ve told you my secret a long time ago.”

Geralt chuckles softly, and it takes everything in Jaskier to not fall into him, to keep that small, incremental distance between them. There’s something monumental in that small space between them, and Jaskier knows that if he crosses it, everything will change, and he doesn’t know if he’s ready for it, so he forces himself to be still and not fall forward. He will take what Geralt is willing to give him, and nothing more. 

“You could’ve told me that you know how to fight, at least,” Geralt tells him, eyes twinkling. “You could’ve helped on my hunts instead of crying for my help like a helpless damsel.”

“It was fun to play at being a helpless damsel!” Jaskier protests, and Geralt lets out a low hum. Jaskier pouts at him, and absently notes the way that Geralt’s eyes are drawn to his mouth, but he shakes that observation away, continuing, “It was more fun! And you always saved me anyway.”

Arching a brow, Geralt asks amusedly, “So you never needed my help when you were running from angry parents and spouses?” 

“Can’t I just hide behind my favourite witcher?” Jaskier widens his eyes in a mask of innocence. 

“Of course, but uh, I wouldn’t mind, you know.” Geralt clears his throat, gaze darting sideways. “If you wanted to take care of yourself. I know you can do it.”

“You wouldn’t?” Despite Geralt’s words, worry squeezes around Jaskier’s heart. Perhaps Geralt is apprehensive of what he’s capable of despite his earlier words, or he’s still wary about Jaskier concealing the truth. “I mean, I know you probably don’t want to see me like -”

Then Jaskier feels Geralt trying to unsheathe his dagger, and before he knows it, he’s slammed Geralt to the ground on instinct, one hand pointing the dagger straight at Geralt’s throat and the other keeping Geralt’s hand, which had tried to take Jaskier’s dagger, in an unbreakable hold, his knee resting on Geralt’s chest in a mirror of the position Jaskier had been in before he’d killed Henryk. 

Then Jaskier realises what he’s done, an instinctive reaction ingrained into him from years of brutal training, and why does he keep fucking up things for himself? He hastily makes to draw back, frantically babbling, “Shit, Geralt, I wasn’t - I didn’t mean - ”

He tries to pull his hand away from where it’s holding the dagger to Geralt’s throat, but Geralt catches his wrist in a gentle grip, preventing him from drawing back. 

Jaskier panics even more. “Geralt, what - ”

Geralt brings Jaskier’s hand closer, closer, closer, and Jaskier’s heart picks up as the deadly tip of the dagger rests against the pale flesh of Geralt’s throat, and he tries to pull his hand back, but Geralt’s grip is strong, forcing his hand to stay in place. 

“I said that I would accept you for who you are,” Geralt says softly, careful not to jostle Jaskier’s hand. One wrong move, and he could be bleeding profusely from a major artery, and terror floods into Jaskier at the knowledge of how vulnerable Geralt is before him. “I want to show you that I meant it. I’m not afraid of you, Jaskier. I won’t push you away or run from you.”

Jaskier struggles to free his hand from Geralt’s grip, but Geralt is as strong as Jaskier is, so neither of them budge, the dagger remaining pointed at Geralt, whose pulse is slow and steady underneath the blade. 

“Let me go,” Jaskier says, quiet and deadly. On instinct, his other hand itches to grab another weapon and catch Geralt off guard, but Jaskier clenches it into a fist. _Fuck_ his instincts. “What the fuck are you doing, you idiot? Let me _go_.”

“I’m showing you.” Geralt’s eyes are wide and unafraid as he looks up at Jaskier, who could kill him so easily, who could kill him in a thousand ways in this position, but there’s not a single hint of fear or distrust in his eyes. “I’m showing that you may have been made to be a killer, but I know you’re more than that. This is part of who you are, and I’m willing to stay by your side.”

Jaskier is rendered speechless, his mouth gaping wide open, and Geralt smiles up at him with gentle amusement, finally loosening his grip in Jaskier’s hand. Jaskier frantically moves his hand away, tossing the dagger to the side, and he leans down, eyes narrowing as he glares at Geralt. 

“You _idiot_ ,” Jaskier hisses, moving backwards so his knee is no longer digging into Geralt’s chest and pointing an angry finger at his face. “What the fuck were you thinking? I could’ve killed you!”

“And you didn’t.” Geralt shrugs, easy and casual, as if he hadn’t been held at knifepoint just moments before. “I trust you.”

Three words, open and honest and true. His eyes are earnest as he gazes up at Jaskier, fondness in the upward tilt of his mouth, and Jaskier is helpless to do anything but sway forward, Geralt propping himself up on his elbows to meet him halfway. 

The kiss is simple and sweet, warmth spreading through Jaskier as their lips touch, one hand bracing himself on the ground as he reaches forward to cup the other around Geralt’s head, tangling his fingers in the long strands of hair and pulling him closer. 

Geralt is warm and pliant beneath him, and he makes a happy hum against Jaskier’s lips, and it’s wonderful. It’s everything Jaskier could ever have hoped for and more, and he wants to stay in this moment forever. 

When Geralt pulls away, his eyes are wide and he’s smiling, soft and sweet, up at Jaskier, lips tinted red from the paint on Jaskier’s lips, and he looks so beautiful that Jaskier can’t stop his hand from moving to stroke Geralt’s cheek, still in awe that this is happening. 

“I trust you,” Geralt repeats, and something blooms in Jaskier’s heart, something bright and warm and hopeful, because _Geralt trusts him_ , even after everything, and he’s so utterly grateful for it. Geralt knows who he is, what he is, knows the secrets he’s buried and hidden, and still trusts him. 

To be trusted is a wonderful feeling. 

Geralt sits up, and Jaskier moves so that he’s straddling Geralt’s lap, tangling both of his hands in Geralt’s hair, and this time, it’s Geralt who settles his hands on Jaskier’s waist and reels him in for another kiss. 

Jaskier has been kissed by many people, people of all ages and genders and even species, all vying for his attention and eager to please, but it’s different with Geralt. It’s different to kiss someone who trusts him, who knows him for who he is and accepts him, who treats him with such tenderness and affection. Jaskier wants to capture this feeling forever, and he pulls Geralt closer and closer, unwilling to let him go. 

Geralt deepens the kiss, his hands roaming Jaskier’s body, running up his exposed chest and feeling down his arms, and Jaskier sighs into Geralt’s mouth, tugging at his hair. 

“You look nice,” Geralt mumbles against Jaskier’s lips, and Jaskier breaks away, smiling playfully. 

“Just ‘nice’?” he asks, pouting, and he watches as Geralt’s gaze is drawn to his lips, painted red and kiss-bitten. Jaskier had been trained to use his body to advantage, to be alluring and enticing, and with Geralt beneath him, looking like everything he’s ever wanted, he supposes that he might as well use his training to do _some_ good. 

“You look divine,” Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier gives him a slow smile. 

“Oh?” he purrs, leaning forwards slightly, close enough to feel the warmth of Geralt’s body, but not close enough to touch. “Tell me more.”

“When I saw you tonight, all dressed like - ” Geralt’s breath catches in his throat as he gestures at Jaskier, and Jaskier captures his hand, guiding it to his chest before letting go. Geralt gulps, but slides his hand down Jaskier’s body as he continues, “I thought you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier hums as Geralt’s hand reaches his thigh. “Go on.”

“And when I saw you standing over Henryk with your dagger in hand,” Geralt brushes his fingers over the knife strapped to Jaskier’s thigh, and Jaskier bares his teeth at Geralt in a predatory grin. Geralt licks his lips. “And smiling like _that_ , like - like sin, I wanted you to take me right then and there.”

Jaskier’s breathing stutters at the words, but he keeps the predatory grin on his face, relishing in the way Geralt’s heartbeat quickens. “Oh? You liked that?”

“I did. I do,” Geralt confirms, flushing pink at the confession, and _wow_ , he makes a wonderful sight, all for Jaskier. 

And Jaskier doesn’t want to disappoint, doesn’t want to let Geralt down, and he knows what makes him alluring, what makes him irresistible, so he murmurs, “You like me sweet?” His predatory grin is replaced by something sweeter and more seductive, something more flirtatious, the smile that Jaskier had given Henryk and his fellow band of nobles. The smile that everyone trips over and falls for. “You like me all dressed up for you, nice and pretty?”

“No!” Geralt bursts out, and Jaskier leans back, trying not to let the hurt show on his face at Geralt’s abrupt rejection, and Geralt quickly amends, “I mean, yes, you look nice like that, but you don’t have to put on a mask. I don’t want you to put on a mask. Not for me.”

“What do you want from me then, Geralt?” Jaskier asks, head spinning in confusion from Geralt’s words. This is what _everyone_ wants, and Geralt had rejected it when Jaskier had tried to give it to him. “I don’t understand.”

Geralt settles a hand on Jaskier’s face, the other stroking his back gently. “I want you. Just you.”

No one has ever wanted _just Jaskier_ before. They want the seductive, beautiful man that he plays, they want the cheery, ever-joyful bard, they want his masks. But never _Jaskier_. “But I’m…”

“I know you,” Geralt whispers, his breath ghosting across Jaskier’s cheek, sincerity rolling off him in waves. “And I want _you_.”

Turning his head, Jaskier presses a soft kiss to Geralt’s palm, and he hears Geralt let out a shaky exhale. “Killer and all?”

“Just you,” Geralt breathes out softly, and when Jaskier turns his head back to face Geralt, he’s staring at Jaskier with impossibly soft eyes. 

Quicker than Geralt can react, Jaskier has unsheathed the knife on his thigh, pointing the tip right above Geralt’s slow beating heart. “Even like this?”

“Even like this,” Geralt says, voice raspy but devoid of fear even with a deadly blade positioned over his chest, and Jaskier sheathes his knife and slots his mouth against Geralt’s, so endlessly grateful that Geralt is accepting him as he is - a bard, a killer, _Jaskier_. 

Geralt’s arms are warm around him, and Jaskier sinks into the embrace, finally letting himself accept that perhaps he can be loved, perhaps he can be trusted, perhaps he can let someone just _hold_ him without wanting to reach for his weapons. 

“You should wear dresses more often,” Geralt mumbles, trailing his hand down the torn hem of Jaskier’s dress. “It’s a good look on you.”

“Mm, I know,” Jaskier responds, shivering as Geralt’s hand runs down his bare thigh. “Why do you think I chose it?”

“You drive me crazy,” Geralt whispers, and Jaskier laughs, low and husky. 

“I’ll wear dresses more often for you, sweetheart.” His breath hitches when Geralt starts pressing lingering kisses to his neck. “Though I’m afraid this one isn’t salvageable.”

“Still looks nice.” Geralt tips Jaskier’s head forward and presses a kiss to his nose, then lets out a surprised noise when his fingers catch on a vial of poison hidden in the folds of the dress. “Gods, how many weapons do you have on you, Jaskier?”

Jaskier wiggles his fingers with a playful grin, the rings glinting in the dim moonlight that filters in from the window. “My rings, my necklace, one dagger on each of my arms and legs, a staff on my back, two knives in my boots, a dozen vials of poison here and there.”

“And people fear me,” Geralt teases, and Jaskier grins, heart light and buoyant at the easy banter, the casual intimacy between them, like everything is normal, but _more_. 

“As they well should, my darling witcher,” Jaskier assures, brushing a hand over Geralt’s armour. “With you and your big scary swords, you can scare off anyone who comes for me.”

“Well, you can do it yourself,” Geralt points out, covering Jaskier’s hand with his own. 

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“Maybe _you_ can be the one protecting me someday.” Geralt lifts their joined hands and presses a kiss to the back of Jaskier’s hand. “You and your… many knives.”

Jaskier’s heart quickens at the tender gesture, and he wants Geralt’s lips to leave a permanent imprint on his skin, a mark that he’s someone who can be trusted, who can be loved. Geralt’s lips linger before he pulls away, and gods, Jaskier is almost dizzy with how fucking much he _adores_ Geralt. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Jaskier croons lowly, because he thinks that he’s discovered _something_ about Geralt regarding Jaskier and his knives, and Geralt smiles up at him, bright and warm. 

“My knight in a beautiful, long dress.” Geralt tugs him closer, and Jaskier obliges, moving so that their chests are almost touching, their faces a mere inch away from each other. “And a couple of knives and some poison, and a lute.”

Jaskier huffs a laugh, filled with joy and wonder. He never thought this would happen, but here he is. “Gods, you really don’t mind this, do you?”

“Clearly not,” Geralt remarks dryly, leaning slightly forward to bump their noses against one another, and the movement is so goddamn adorable that Jaskier _has_ to peck Geralt’s lips lightly. 

“You wonderful witcher.” Jaskier tightens his grip on Geralt’s hand. “What did I do to deserve you?”

“Found me in a dingy tavern in Posada.” Geralt is smiling fondly, eyes distant at the memory. “You were such an idiot.”

“Still am.”

“Still are,” Geralt agrees, affection burning in his golden eyes. “But a competent idiot.”

“I…” Jaskier clears his throat sheepishly. “I know you saw me kill Henryk. And his guards. But also… I might have poisoned the entire ballroom.”

Geralt is silent for a moment, and Jaskier’s palms grow sweaty even as he struggles to keep his expression even, wondering if _that_ will make Geralt push him away. He’d promised Geralt the truth, after all, and here he is, confessing to poisoning a few dozen nobles. 

Then Geralt cracks a slight smile. “Of course you did.” He sighs, but it’s fond, and Jaskier feels like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. 

“You’re not… mad?” Jaskier questions, still slightly hesitant. 

“No.” Geralt shrugs, and Jaskier is relieved to see that the affection in his eyes hasn’t faded. “I’m sure you had your reasons.”

“They were like Henryk,” Jaskier says darkly, recalling the villagers, broken down and starving. “The world will be better off without them.”

“My bard,” Geralt starts, an amused twist to his lips, and Jaskier’s stomach curls with warmth to hear Geralt referring to Jaskier as _his_. “Who goes around and kills the monsters of the Continent masquerading as men.”

“My witcher,” Jaskier returns in a husky purr, delighting in the way Geralt’s cheeks flush at the possessiveness in his voice. “Who goes around protecting humanity. My witcher, the best man I know.”

Geralt looks away, pink tinting his cheeks. “Hm.”

He’s adorable, and also a bit of an idiot, so Jaskier tilts his head back, making their eyes meet. “I mean it. You’re the best man I know.”

“Considering what you do as a side job, I don’t think you know many good men,” Geralt deflects, and _oh_ , Jaskier will _not_ let him get away with brushing away a genuine compliment. 

“That’s exactly how I know that you’re _good_ , my darling witcher,” Jaskier says, staring straight into Geralt’s eyes, sincerity ringing in every word. “You know what I’ve done, and yet, you accept me for who I am. You’re a good man. The best one I’ve ever met.”

“Gods, I love you,” Geralt blurts, then blinks several times, clearly not intending for the words to burst out of his mouth, and Jaskier’s mouth falls open. 

_ I trust you _ , Geralt had said earlier, and Jaskier had heard the silent _I love you_ behind it, had felt Geralt’s love in his gentle hands and tender eyes, had seen it in the way Geralt had placed his life in Jaskier’s deadly hands, vulnerable and trusting, but for Geralt to say it out loud…

Hot tears burn in Jaskier’s eyes, and he chokes out, “You - I - do you mean it?”

_ Please _ , he begs in his mind, knowing that if Geralt were to retract what he said, Jaskier would be _broken_. _Please tell me you mean it._

Geralt opens his mouth and closes it, and Jaskier tries to fight the dread that coils around his gut. But then Geralt pulls him into a fierce hug, tucking his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck, and when he speaks, his voice is muffled, but the words ring clear and true. 

“I mean it. I love you.”

Jaskier chokes out a joyous laugh, in slight disbelief that this is _happening_ , that they’re _here_ , and he throws his arms around Geralt. “Fuck, I - I love you too. So fucking much.”

Geralt is saying something, the sound buried into Jaskier’s neck, and it takes Jaskier a moment to realise that Geralt is mumbling a litany of _IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou_ , and his heart blooms and swells, warm and full and bright, filled with his own love and the knowledge that he has Geralt’s love, Geralt’s trust, and they mean the world to him. 

Jaskier drops a quick kiss onto Geralt’s shoulder, letting his lips linger as he strokes Geralt’s hair, glowing silver in the faint moonlight that illuminates the room, marvelling that he gets to have this, that they get to have each other, and Jaskier doesn’t think he’s ever felt so light. 

“So, what’s next?” Jaskier asks when Geralt finally lifts his head from Jaskier’s neck, pressing their cheeks together for a brief moment. 

“You know,” Geralt murmurs, trailing a hand over Jaskier’s bicep and lightly brushing his fingers over the blade strapped there. “I heard about a noble, several towns over, who abuses her servants and her subjects. Think anyone would miss her if she drops dead?”

A slow smile spreads across Jaskier’s face, joy warm in his heart at the prospect of travelling together again, at Geralt’s easy acceptance, at Geralt’s trust and love. 

Letting Geralt capture his lips once again, Jaskier whispers, “Oh, no, witcher. I don’t think anyone would.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look.. i love me some bamf jaskier,, and geralt being weak for his bamf bard/assassin. yes, geralt is very smitten here, he most definitely has a thing for jaskier's knives and his competence hehe
> 
> (frankly, one of the reasons why this was posted so late was bc i saw some.. not great things said about this fic and i just.. felt awful and put off posting until i sorta forgot and work overwhelmed me.. but well, here it is)
> 
> but also this verse is so so fun! i’ve left so much untouched that i might come back to in the future - jaskier’s backstory, he and geralt’s future relationship now that geralt knows jaskier’s little side job.. so many possibilities

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on tumblr at [@jaskicr](https://jaskicr.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
